


Pinkish in Color

by luvliv2004



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Angst, Bert McCracken - Freeform, Betrayal, Blatant disregard for human anatomy, Blood, Bottom Gerard Way, Churches & Cathedrals, Gay, Gay Sex, Includes a male pregnancy, LGBTQ, LGBTQ Character, Los Angeles, Love, M/M, Mpreg, One Shot, Partner Betrayal, Rain, Stabbing, Trigger warning for sensitive topics, frank iero - Freeform, my chemical romance - Freeform, not a fetish fic, the used - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-05-23 15:35:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14937030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luvliv2004/pseuds/luvliv2004
Summary: Gerard is young and dumb, and his choice of lover will lead him to make mistakes that may cost him his life.





	Pinkish in Color

**Author's Note:**

> I tried so hard not to make this a gross cliche mpreg story because I think most of those are weird. Here’s my take. It’s my first one-shot in this particular sub-genre. If you like it, thanks. If you don’t... my bad? God, what am I doing with my life?

Gerard had been surprised he had been able to walk for as long as he had. Every time he stood too quickly, he lost all the blood in his head, and his vision went black around the edges. It was a miracle he was able to walk from Mikey’s house all the way to La Brea street without blacking out. 

Mikey knew better than to stop him from leaving. The last time he did, he ended up hurting his brother, and he hated to see him hurt.

He had seen him answer the phone and pack a bag many times before, and he knew exactly where he was going. It never occurred to him to confront him about it. 

“Yeah.” He could hear Gerard say as he stood right outside of the guest room. “Uh-huh. I’ll be there at five. Yep. Love you too. See you then.” He placed the landline back on its holder. Mikey watched him through the slightly opened door as he plucked a few articles of clothing from his drawers and threw them in his bag along with a few other belongings of his.

When Gerard turned around to leave, he jumped back at the sight of his brother standing so close to him. “Shit, Mikey!” He smiled. “You scared the shit out of me. How long were you there?”

Mikey shook his head. “You don’t need to go with him. You know that, right?”

“Yes.” He laughed an awkward laugh. “I do.”

“Stay.” He walked over to the bed, sitting on the edge in attempts to bring Gerard away from the door. “Stay, and I’ll drive you down to the office tomorrow. Terry will give you your job back no problem. You’re a good worker.”

Gerard shook his head. “I have to be there tonight. He’s waiting for me.” He turned to his dresser and pulled out a pack of pink, spermicidal condoms. When he opened his bag again to place them inside, Mikey grabbed at his wrist.

“You’re twenty-seven. You can be independent. You don’t need him.”

He looked down at his brother square in his face with rage in his eyes. “I love him.”

“Does he love you?” Mikey followed his wrist with his hand as Gerard retracted it. 

“He loves me more than you ever have.”

That was enough to make Mikey stand up, letting go of Gerard. “I let you live here because I love you. Okay? Does your man let you stay in his house in God knows where? No!” He began backing Gerard up against the wall. “Do you know how embarrassing it is when I can’t have girls or friends over because I have to care for you all the time? It isn’t my job to police my older brother around so he doesn’t fuck up his life. But do you know why I do it?” Gerard didn’t answer. “Because I love you more than he does. I’m your blood.”

“How do you know how he treats me? You're not there!”

Mikey shoved him into the wall behind them. A helpless grunt escaped Gerard’s throat as his shoulder blades contacted the drywall. He held up his empty hands in surrender as tears formed in his eyes. 

The malevolent urges left Mikey as quickly as they entered him, and he had recognized what he had done. “I’m so sorry! You know that!” He created a distance between him.

With a gentle wiggle, Gerard was able to free himself from the dents in the wall he had created. He said nothing as he wiped the dust off his shirt, grabbed his bag, and left the building.

A great shame filled Mikey as he sat back down on his bed and rested his head between his hands on his knees. Past his left shoe, he saw the pack of condoms lying on the floor. He cried, knowing that forgetting the condoms was the last thing Gerard needed to do.

The incident had been months ago, and now a storm coated the entire city of Los Angeles in rain which had been relentless all weekend. If it rained any more, the streets would flood. Every article of Gerard’s clothing had been turned a shade darker by the raindrops that had soaked him from head to toe in frigid water.

As he walked down the street, he stuck his tongue out, trying to catch some of the droplets. A single drop landed on the tip of his tongue, reactivating the annoying taste of metal plaguing his mouth. He could only assume it had to do with the smell coming from the rain mixing with the asphalt.

The rain had brought up so many scents from the ground: The human urine soaking the dirt surrounding the planted trees, the hotdogs roasting in one of those carts with the spinning grills, he could even smell the thurible incense wafting out of the open doors of the church across the street. It was so vivid— so graphic. Only intensified by the feeling of all his belongings clacking together against his back in his bag as he walked.

Gerard had accepted that his hair dye would bleed in the rain. It was a side effect of having the brightest red hair in all of LA, and of buying the cheapest dye at the store called, “Poison Red.” If he would have thought before he left Mikey’s apartment, he would have put on his hoodie, but his hair was far too wet to do that now. 

As he stood in front of the hotdog stand, he stared at the vendor who hadn’t noticed him yet. Even then, he still begged with his eyes for some food. At his height, the vendor’s eyes fell under his own. It was only after he had finally returned Gerard’s stare he noticed his eyes were a fiendish hazel, all green with a ring of brown around the pupil.

“You— Uh, want a hotdog?” There was a whisper of distraction still left in his voice.

Gerard shook his head with a smile as he waved a shy hand without a word. He walked away. There was nothing terribly attractive about the vendor. Gerard knew if he were to pursue him, it would take time for him to feel something. He would never have love with the vendor as quickly as he had had love with Bert, he knew that for sure.

He continued his walk, arriving at the Petite Rouge Hotel like he had done nearly every 8th of the month for the past year and a half. Sure, Gerard was burnt out on gas and running out of money, but he knew, after five pm, his worries would be gone for the next thirty—or so—days. 

He had been on edge the past few days every time he’d reach into his pocket for his wallet. Anywhere he needed to spend money, he’d look over his shoulders—twice on each side—then he’d slip the rugged piece of faux leather out and unfold it, keeping it close to his chest. He couldn’t allow himself to be vulnerable enough to be robbed; especially when he’d often forcibly—sometimes accidentally— vomit up about every meal he’d eat (if you could consider honey buns, miller light, and half a bag of Chex Mix a meal.) Times were tough lately, which was exactly why Gerard was so eager for the clock to strike the magical hour.

He walked up to the key office and stood in front of the window. Usually, he’d use his gentle hand to knock on the metal sheet separating him and Clementine, but today he knew his usual knock wouldn’t be heard over the intense weather.

She opened the window after she heard his fist wrapping on the sheet and a look of glee appeared on her face. “Gerard! I missed you two last month. Where had you been?” She handed him the regular key on hook number thirteen.

“Waiting for the phone to ring.” He took the key and headed further down the path to his room. 

“Have fun!” Clementine called as she slammed the metal shut again. 

Everything was falling into place the way it was supposed to. Gerard was lounging on the crusty motel bed. He laid on his back nearly dozing off to the sound of the A.M Radio playing through his earphones. 

“It's June the 8th and today on Passing Time with Piper, we have a special guest: Daniella Herrera. Ms. Herrera, would you like to tell our listeners exactly what it is you do?”

“I’m an astronomer at NASA, and I’m assigned to a team dedicated to predicting the orbit cycle and weather on the planet Venus.”

“Tell us about what occurred earlier this morning.”

“Sure. What we predicted and observed today at about 5:00 am to 11:00 am was what we call the Transit of Venus. It’s when Venus’s orbit aligns with the sun’s, and Venus can be seen as a black dot that cuts a path through the Sun.”

“Oh, so like an eclipse.”

“Yeah. Kind of like an eclipse, except Venus isn’t close enough to Earth to black out the Sun.”

“I see.”

He drowned the rest of the interview out with his own thoughts about the impending night. Bert would likely jump on him right away like he always did; fiending for sex like he was in withdrawal, not saying a single meaningful word until he was finished. 

It wouldn’t be true to say that Gerard felt nothing. Gerard couldn’t help but care for the man who paid for everything. Their rendezvouses were not only about sex and money. Bert was the closest thing to a friend Gerard had, and he would try everything in his power to protect what they had.

By no means did Gerard consider himself a prostitute. He was simply in a position with another man where they would have sex, make out, maybe watch a movie together and cuddle, and because the wealthier of the two felt grateful for the other’s company, he would offer him what he needed. Bert was getting fucked, and Gerard was getting by— barely. Neither of them saw anything wrong with their arrangement. Neither of them would have it any other way. 

Gerard unplugged his earphones from his radio and turned his face into his pillow. The scent of another person who had rested her head before him bore a path down his nostrils, stimulating every nerve in his nose. 

He could smell her oil-ridden hair she had neglected to wash for at least a week and the perfume she had sprayed herself with to hide that she hadn’t bathed and all the cigarettes she had smoked in bed. Never in his life had Gerard been so repulsed by the smell of phantom cigarettes. Something was different this time. He couldn’t place as to what. He fell asleep in contemplation. 

The handle of the door shook, waking Gerard from a light nap he couldn’t even confirm was sleep. At the realization it was Bert, he bolted upright in his place. He placed his radio on the bedside table, attempting to prevent it from being broken by what they were about to do. 

The cold gust of wind as Bert opened the door sprinkled Gerard’s face with the slightest mention of moisture. It was enough to break his want for real sleep. It ran a chill down his spine and made every hair in his body stand on end.

There was an expectant smile covering his teeth, in his lips, and in his cheeks. He didn’t say a word, however. 

Neither did Bert as he dropped his duffel bag on the floor of the hotel room. Gerard could feel the rumble in the ground through the bed.

Bert locked the door behind him. He took off his damp jacket and set it next to his bag. Though the grueling rain had stopped, the light afternoon drizzle was evident in Bert’s hair. Gerard could smell the wet asphalt in the grates of his shoes and the kind of endearing sweat covering Bert’s freshly exposed arms. 

Still, without words, Bert walked up to Gerard at the bed. Gerard let out a shrill giggle as he sat up straight with his arms and legs crossed at the edge of the mattress. Bert leaned over, resting his knees beside Gerard’s. 

Now that he was close enough, Gerard could see Bert hadn’t shaved in a few days. It was at that moment he recognized the eyebrows on his face and the five o’clock shadow on his jaw were a deep dirty blond. The slinky twirls of wet hair that waved its way from his scalp were a midnight black. The closer he looked, the more he could see the rim of dirty blond at his roots. He never knew Bert was dying his hair.

Bert embraced his lips with his own; crass and burly, out of practice. Gerard could smell that Bert hadn’t brushed his teeth in days. Deep down, it disgusted him, but he knew better than to say anything.

With his coal miner hand, he wrapped around Gerard’s throat and pushed him backward on the bed, leaning over him. “Beg.” He ordered as he adjusted his fingers on the sides of Gerard’s neck, threatening to squeeze harder.

“Fuck me.” Gerard rasped. He could feel his face turning red. “Please! I need you.” He quivered his voice the way he knew would make Bert come. Bert squeezed harder. “Please! Hurry! I can’t wait another second. It’s already been two months!” 

At that moment, Bert couldn’t wait any longer either. With his free hand, he undid the buckle of his belt and slipped his pants down to the floor. 

Gerard flung his head back on the bed and looked towards the wall ahead of him. The upside-down view disoriented him as he felt Bert slipping inside of him; the feeling of his dense cock. Even though it had been one-sixth of a year since Bert had entered him, Gerard knew something was different. 

Every time Bert shoved himself back and forth, he felt Bert knocking up against something inside of him. Normally, Bert’s dick would fill him up enough and he would’ve enjoyed it. This time, it made him overflow, overflow with worry. With every thrust, Gerard was plagued with a thought as to why. 

In. Bert was being too rough. Maybe he was having a bad day or something. Gerard could be understanding. Bert never lasted for more than five minutes anyway. He tried clamping down on him to minimize the feeling and provide a little more resistance for Bert. Out.

In. Bert gave him a disease. Who knew who else he was seeing in between visits with him. He had been letting him go in raw ever since his fight with Mikey. Bert would never fuck him without a condom after their first mind-blowing time. Out. 

In. Gerard had been letting Bert fuck him raw. Out.

In. Bert wasn’t wearing a condom. Out.

“Shit!” Gerard cried.

In. He was expecting. Out.

In. It was Bert’s. Out.

A tear spilled in his eye at the possibility. Bert let out a groan of alleviation as he grabbed at the bottom of Gerard’s shirt, pulling it up to the pits of his arms. He caressed Gerard’s figure with his rugged hand as if he could read Gerard’s mind. He stroked and fondled the light pad of cellulite which had settled at the base of his pelvis. 

In. He came. Out a last time.

Gerard exhaled with a release of pressure as Bert got off him and pulled up his pants. “Do me a favor.” Bert breathed. 

“Yeah, babe?” Gerard pulled down his shirt as he sat up. 

Bert stuck his hand in his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. “Don’t you get fat on me.” He tossed a stack of hundreds at Gerard on the bed and made his way for the door. Before Gerard could even reach for the money, Bert was gone. Gerard could hear the engine of Bert’s IROC Camero turning over through the door.

Gerard felt like he had been stabbed with Bert’s words. He was noticing things too, and that was a bad thing. 

He allowed everything to come out as he heard Bert driving off. On the bed, he fell over, attempting to pull up his pants in his lying position. He curled his hands over his face and wept into his palms. It made him sick to even consider the possibility: how irresponsible he had been. 

Through his clouded eyes, Gerard stared at the bills next to him on the bed: Ten Franklins staring back at him with as much worry as he himself had felt. He left them in their place as he left the bed for the bathroom. 

In the water stained mirror, Gerard stared back at himself; arms crossed, back slouched, missing his jacket. It sure had been cold in that hotel room. 

He unfolded his arms and straightened his spine. The way his shirt hung over his body was so inconspicuous, making all of Gerard’s perturbations disappear for a fraction of a second. The grey cloth of his sleeveless garb curtained his midsection. It barely brushed his skin, only as he moved. At rest, it was still as loose and as baggy as it had been on him two months ago.

As Gerard reached for the bottom edge of his shirt, he knew he would be stripping himself of his mirage. For when he lifted his shirt, his eyes were met with the smallest of disturbances in his figure. He ran his gentle hand over his abdomen, back and forth, the possibility of the life growing inside of him becoming more and more plausible with every stroke. 

It all made sense. The box of napkins in his backpack hadn’t depleted as it should have, and the vomit wasn’t gas station food poisoning. It had occurred to him how much he had been drinking lately.

He felt so out of place when he had made his way to the closest dollar market. The sky was still grey and showed signs of pouring again, but not for a while. Even though he had gotten paid, the dollar store was what he could afford if he wanted his funds to last.

First, he dropped the gestation test at the bottom of his green handbasket. Slowly, as he walked around the store, he piled toiletries on top of its white and lavender box, so no one could see he was buying it— more likely because he himself didn’t want to see it.

The cashier paid him no time of day when he dumped his basket onto the conveyor belt: Not when she rung up the tests nor when he paid for his four-dollar purchase with a hundred-dollar bill. For that, he was grateful. 

His trip back was more of a sprint to the hotel than a walk. Gerard knew he had a full bladder and only a few hours before Bert came back. There was no time to waste. 

The second he arrived back, he used the test and made his way to the edge of the bed. He placed the test flat on the nightstand and hunched over it waiting for his results. 

Nothing would change if the test turned out negative. There would be no period of attachment he would feel at not having a positive result. Gerard would throw away his receipts in a public trash can so Bert would never find it, and he’d be on his merry way. He’d persuade Bert to start wearing condoms again, and they’d meet again soon after. 

If it was positive, Gerard would be a great father. He’d go back to his mother’s house and explain his situation to her, and she’d welcome both him and Bert with open arms. There’d be enough food for him and the baby and Bert, and a bed for them to share. Maybe Mikey would even welcome his new niece or nephew once they were born.

He was sure that Bert would make an even better father. He felt that if Bert showed their baby half of the love that he showed Gerard, their kid would grow up to be a philanthropist. It almost made him cry to imagine all the greatness that they would provide their child. 

First, the darker line appeared, then the lighter, and like that Gerard was filled with the type of elation that only expectant fathers felt. It was a sense of calming that washed over him and ensured him that everything was going to be okay. 

He knew that he had to tell Bert that day, as he never knew when he would see him again. It had to be done. 

For the rest of the day, he danced around the room, pacing and skipping along in paternal glee to the sounds of his radio. All the while, the pressure and anticipation were mounting in his core, manifesting in his intestines, all too familiarly.

He had taken to counting the number of tiny roses on the wallpaper as he listened to his radio in his headphones. It had begun to rain again, and the pounding of the rain gave him yet another thing to distract himself with. 

“467. 468. 469.” He whispered to himself, wishing he had a pencil to tick each one off. “470–.”

The lock of the door rattled again. Gerard jumped and scrambled to grab the test. He stood straight in the middle of the room and held the plastic stick behind his back as he waited for the door to open. 

A new song on the radio had begun to play: The Crystal Ship by The Doors. The smooth waves filled his ears that mimicked how Gerard wanted this all to play out. 

Bert stepped through the door, two hotdogs in his arms. “Hey, babe.” Bert cooed.

Gerard waved with his free hand, standing awkwardly in his place. 

“I got us some hot dogs, plain how you like them.” Bert set them down on the Tv stand. “Fucking dumbass hotdog guy didn’t even have a bag. I had to cover them when it started to sprinkle again.” He vented it all with his back turned as he slipped off the foil wrapping from each dog. “Got some sunflower seeds too if you want some.” 

He pulled a large bag of seeds out of one of his pockets. In his other pocket, he reached for his switchblade and used its pointed tip to rip the bag open. 

The crunching of the plastic sent a disturbance through the room, yet as off as he felt, Gerard saw his opportunity. He held the test out in front of him, making no attempts to conceal it or its results. Yup, there were still two lines in the cloudy plastic viewing square. Two bright pink lines that Bert was now staring at from across the room.

“What?” He asked as he threw a few seeds in his mouth, walking towards Gerard, the knife still in his hand. 

He was at a loss for words. He could feel his hands becoming clammy, and if Bert hadn’t plucked the stick from him, he feared that he may have dropped it. 

Bert didn’t know what to make of what he was looking at. He had never seen anything like it in his life, so he could only assume the worst. “Oh shit!” He cried. “What do you have? Who’d you get it from?” 

Gerard couldn’t help but smile. “A baby. I got it from you.”

It all clicked in his mind. “You’re—“ he looked up at Gerard. 

He nodded furiously. “What do you say?” There was nothing more that Gerard wanted in his life than for Bert to be happy with him. 

Bert didn’t say anything. He tossed the test to the bed, a look of sorrow that could have been mistaken for joy spread on his face. His free arm flew up, asking Gerard to hug him. 

It didn’t seem like there was anything else to worry about from there. Gerard ran the tiny distance between them. He flung his arms open to cradle Bert’s neck. As their bodies collided, and everything seemed to be okay. Bert’s tight grasp gave him a sense of security not only for himself but also for their child. 

Bert hugged him back, placing his free hand around his shoulder. “You know what I have to say?” Gerard was struck by the balefulness of Bert’s voice. 

“What?” Strangely, it was hard for Gerard to speak. 

“When I rented this hotel room for us all that time ago, I wanted a release. Not an obligation.” He released his embrace from Gerard, stomping away with a tantrum-like stride.

When Gerard looked down at himself, all he could see was the knife sticking out of his stomach and the dark red stain of blood that had gathered around it on his shirt. 

“No!” He cried out, not knowing what to do. “How could you do that?” At that moment, he didn’t care about himself, all he cared about was his baby. He was almost sure that he’d lose it, especially if he took the knife out himself. It didn’t even phase him that he was supposed to be in pain. He didn’t know what to do. 

Bert rattled the ground as he stomped back over to him. He bundled a fist and sent a few strong licks all over Gerard’s abdomen, and a few on his face— for good measure. He struck Gerard in the eye once, causing it to turn a bright red and his vision to blur. Any tears that involuntarily fell from his eye left a blood stain on his face. 

Even as Bert had dropped him from his grip, and he fell to the floor, he still worried for his child.

He didn’t even bother screaming as Bert opened the door of the room and the pounding rain stared back at him; not even when Bert picked him up by the straps of his tank top to throw him out of the room. He pushed him over the threshold, making him fall backward on the slippery pavement. 

Bert bent over to collect his knife that had still been jetting out of him. Gerard had been so weak as he looked up at the blood-stained blade. Before Bert had slammed the door on him, he tried to lift his arm in protest. His own limb felt so heavy in that motion.

His baby needed him to get up. It needed him to stand up and walk to find help, and that’s exactly what Gerard did. He pushed himself off the floor and leaned up against the wall of the motel room. With every ounce of energy he had left, he began walking on the pavement away from the hotel. 

He could feel the trail of blood trickling down his leg and the blood clotting in his nose where he had been hit. The mucusy pile of blood that he had spit out had begun to dilute as the rain poured on it in a jet. As he made it out of the corridor of rooms, he barely noticed how stained his hands had been. The rain helped to wash it away. 

The pain and fear that he felt had been visceral, but it hadn’t ever occurred to him how urgent his situation was. He couldn’t yet blame that on a loss of blood, so he’d probably explain it as shock. 

His absent-minded stroll had left him with no choice but to not even consider that Clementine was still in her office. Had he been more thoughtful, the ordeal would have ended much sooner and Gerard might have been more hopeful. Considering he had been stabbed and was fearing for the life of his unborn child, he was blinded to any easy way out. 

As he turned the corner and followed the same street he had come on when he had arrived, he picked up his pace. Now, he had been trotting at a moderate speed, trying his hardest not to slip. All he needed right then was to slip. 

More blood had accumulated in his esophagus, and he ruggedly hacked it out. He wished for a person to walk past him and help him. His wishes were returned with nothing more than a gush of blood that had nearly popped between his legs. After that, all the real pain came. 

Cramps filled his abdomen with a growing, pinching suffering that made Gerard cry out. He pressed his hand to his wound, only upsetting himself even more. 

The street lights had lit up with the disappearance of the sun and he followed them. Not a single person was on the streets with him. Not a homeless person, nor a roaming police officer. A storm was not the best time to get stabbed, apparently.

He reached the all too familiar crosswalk that was home to one of the lights. He turned left at it and saw the monstrous St. Majella Cathedral. 

Gerard ran towards it, not recognizing the irony of it all. He threw himself up the cathedral steps, reaching for the handle of the door. The lock simply rattled in refusal to open. Then, it hit him: A spasm that made him lightheaded enough to fall to his knees. 

“No!” He wailed, the blood evident in his voice. “Someone! Someone save us!” It came out as a thunderous wail that resonated down the block. And with that, he keeled over the first few steps, and let the rain swallow him alive. 

The rain didn’t stop Frank from setting up his hotdog stand on the corner of Majella and Voltaire. He thought passersby might see him and his umbrella as a sort of haven. They would want protection from the rain, and while they were at it, maybe a hotdog too. It was a win-win situation. A win-win besides the freezing temperature outside and the lack of people on the street.

He had begun to sell at eleven thirty, right before the Monday usual lunch rush, figuring there had to be someone desperate enough to stop for a dog. 

Surely his sign had to be appealing enough. It sat in front of his metal cart advertising all the different city styles he could dress a dog in: Philly, Jersey, Yankee, San Francisco. You name it, Frank could make you that hotdog. 

One thing which made the job easier for him was the church across the street. The “Saint Majella Cathedral” to be more specific. 

Frank found it a bit ironic there was a church named after St. Gerard Majella, the patron saint of unborn children, expectant mothers, and birth in South LA. It was a little funny to him seeing as the city probably had a high birth rate. He didn’t have any evidence to back it up, it was only a fake statistic he’d made up after years of observation. 

He didn’t want to think about all the unplanned children born to unsuited parents. It broke his heart to think about the kids who were brought up in a similar situation to his own. He wouldn’t wish that uncertainty on his worst enemy. 

What the church had in irony, it matched in equal levels of architectural beauty. On days like today, Frank would spend his hours not selling hotdogs, but analyzing every feature of the off-white palace. 

On either side of the main chapel stood two towers with domed points, holding crosses on their tips. Each tower held four smaller towers big enough for one person to fit in around their shafts. On the main chapel, which stood shorter than the two towers, there was a circular design holding a large marble carving of Our Lady of Guadeloupe. 

Frank had only ever been in the church once on his own time, and it was as stunning on the inside as it was on the outside. Stained glass windows coated all the pews in shards of colorful light, and the scent of the candles burning in the back reminded him of Catholic school. 

All his memories from high school replayed in his eyes like a movie only he could see. A tragic movie ending in his expulsion. 

It had been nearing the end of his senior year at Saint Francis Catholic School for boys. To fulfill their graduation requirement for 100 hours of community service, Frank and his friend Matthew had spent nearly all their free time in their local church helping the priests and nuns prepare for mass and straightening up around the chapel. 

There had been something monotonous about their service. Sister Janice like to keep it that way, saying, “Little boys will turn to men once they learn order.” If only she had known Matthew was never meant to be a man, she might have never left him unsupervised. 

“Frank.” He called to him as he squirted the pew with cleaner. 

“Yeah?” Frank swept the aisle. 

“Do you think God ever meant for us to succeed?”

Frank stopped. The question hit him so unexpectedly. For his whole life, he believed the answer was yes, but the phrasing of the question made him forget everything he’d ever been conditioned to know. “Define success.”

“Graduate, get good jobs, make money, find a wife, have children, baptize them, grow old, die, go to heaven.”

“Yeah, I guess.” He lied to himself. 

Matthew stood, walking towards Frank, dropping his cleaning supplies in the bucket on the way. He leaned over the marble pillar right where Frank had been sitting. “You picture yourself having a wife?” He rested his hand on the side of his face. 

Frank had something with Matthew, a kind of closeness which allowed him to feel safe enough, to tell the truth. 

“No.” It came out a whisper. 

“That’s what I thought.” Matt straightened his posture.

Frank was shocked. He almost dropped his broom. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. I’ve been…” he looked for the right combination of words in his mind, “picking up on things.”

“So now you think you have me all figured out, don’t you?” His voice held a dare, almost. 

“Listen punk.” He charged Frank, grabbing him by his tie and pushing him up against the wall of the church. An echo radiated throughout. “If I offered you the chance to fuck around with me right now in that booth, would you take it?”

Frank was sure Matthew could feel his beating heart seeing his hand was pressed up against his chest. He turned his head and stared over at the confession booth. Just the thought of what Matthew had offered sent goosebumps across his arms. Sure, Frank had always had his fantasies about Matt, but he never saw himself that close to acting on them. He couldn’t refuse this chance. “Yes.” 

Matt erupted with a series of French kisses, feeling almost as good to Frank as saying yes and admitting his truth. 

Matt only broke his lips away from Frank as he grabbed at the lapels of Frank’s uniform and dragged him over to the confession booth. Frank backed up into the priest's side of the box and unbuttoned his pants. Matthew did the same, and the fresh eighteen-year-olds had their way with each other, unaware of the footsteps coming from Father Patrick’s chamber as confession hours started at 3:00.

Every day, when Frank parked his cart across from the church, he was tormented with the memory and all the feelings that came afterward. It was a shame the damn fool loved to torture himself and refused to park his cart anywhere else. 

That day, however, was different. Halfway through his daily reflection of his past wrongs, he was distracted by a streak of red in the corner of his eye. He allowed himself to take a break from his mind and analyze what he had thought he had seen. 

It had been a head of cherry red hair belonging to a young man that was a little taller than he was. Frank found him stunning, to say the least.

“You— Uh, want a hotdog?” He offered.

The man shook his head with a smile, bidding him farewell with a coy little wave before he had continued to walk down the street. 

Frank had seen him walk by the stand once a month for the entire time he had owned his cart. He never had once noticed him back. He wanted nothing more than to ask him what the hell he was doing. Where he had been the month before that caused him to not walk down the street. He’d never start a conversation like that, however— He knew better. 

He continued to watch him cross the street at the crosswalk and disappeared around the corner down the street. The only thing he had with the man was a fascination as to who he was and what he did. 

There was only so much he had to do on the corner as he waited for someone to walk by and buy something. 

A pair of heels on the pavement approached his cart, and he filled with glee. He wouldn’t have batted an eyelash to the sound of any other sound of shoes on the sidewalk, even in this weather, but the sound was unlike any other shoe he had ever heard or come to love.

“Claudia!” Frank called with his arms outside. 

“Oh, Frankie!” She squealed as she ran over to him for a hug. “Aw, sugar. Let me get under this goddamn umbrella! It is pouring out here.”

“I know! It’s fucking wet.”

“So whatcha doin’ out here then?”

“Selling my hot dogs.”

“Uh-hu. Sure, mister! Sure.” She accused. 

“What?”

“I know the only reason you’s out here today is that it’s the 8th of the month and you wanted to catch a glimpse of that redhead always coming around here.”

It never occurred to him it had been one of the reasons he found himself at the corner selling hotdogs in such extreme weather. Claudia could see it in Frank better than anyone in the world, how much he was obsessed with that guy: always talking about him when he walks by like clockwork after the first week of the month. She could see the pining in his eyes whenever he spoke of him.

“How are you so good at reading people like that?” He asked her. 

“Not people, honey. Men. I’m good at reading a man because It’s what anyone ever saw me as for the past Twenty-five years. Women are a different story. You should be glad you’re gay Frankie, otherwise, I’d be no help to you with the ladies.”

Frank laughed. It only occurred to him Claudia had been born a man whenever she brought it up. He only saw her as the friendly sex worker who would occasionally stop by and talk to him. 

“Did you see the little fucker today?” She asked.

“Yeah. I offered him a hotdog, and he smiled at me.”

“For free?” 

“No.”

“Oh, you cheap bitch!”

“Figures. I’ve come here every day since I seen your little punk ass with your cart on my corner, and every day when I see you, I buy one of your little hotdogs to keep you afloat. What makes me think that you’d give one away to the little hussy you like.”

“Hey! Business is business. What makes you think he’s a hussy?”

“I don’t know. It’s instinctual. I know you, therefore I know the kind of guys you go after. You like the hussies.”

“Oh, whatever!”

“Anyway. I gotta get going. I gotta meet someone at The Petite Rouge in five minutes. I’ll take a hotdog.”

Frank reached into his cart and pulled out a bun and small cardboard holder. With his pair of metal tongs, he reached into his hotdog warmer and pulled out the ugliest looking sausage. He exchanged the hotdog for the dollar and seventy-five cents Claudia had pulled out of her handbag. 

“Thank you, sweetheart. See you when I see you. Ciao Bella.” 

He waved to Claudia as she crossed the street at the light and threw away her dog at the nearest trashcan. Claudia had never once eaten a hotdog she had bought from Frank. It made him laugh. 

The rest of the day flew by in a mess of pouring, sweeping, drizzling, obnoxious rain that only allowed Frank’s usuals to come to his stand. They appreciated how much of a consistent and reliable lunch source he had become, and he appreciated how they didn’t recognize how desperate for cash he was. 

It was around the sunset hour of six o’clock that Frank decided he would soon call it quits for the day and bus home with some meager forty-five dollars in profits. The sky had been a light grey all day, and as the moon began to take the suns place, it became darker and darker gradually, considering it was almost summer. 

Frank was about to let down his umbrella at the moment the rains had stopped when he heard a voice call to him on the empty street. 

“Hey! Sausage man!” 

He turned his head. Maybe he recognized the man who had been jaywalking to reach his cart. Maybe he was being optimistic.

“Are you open?” He asked.

Frank nodded. “What can I get you?”

“I’ll take a plain dog, and one with mustard and relish.”

Frank prepared two hotdogs, sliding the first plain one to the man, and looking through his condiment holder to find his bottle of relish. He pulled out every single bottle in the holder to make sure he wasn’t missing it, but in the end, he could not find the bottle of relish. 

“Sorry, man. I ran out of relish. Do you still want mustard?”

The man scoffed. “But your sign says, ‘Dogs however you want.’” 

“I know, I know.”

“But you don’t have relish?”

“Sorry, brother. How about I throw in some sunflower seeds? You like sunflower seeds?”

“Sure. Make the other one plain too.” The man responded, heavy with sarcasm.

“$3.75.” Frank slid all the man’s food across his cart, expecting his pay. 

“What? No bag?” The man asked, flopping around four-dollar bills in his hand as he gesticulated. “How the fuck am I supposed to carry this?” 

Frank shrugged. He was too tired to deal with him right now. All he wanted to do was to go home and relax after a hard, wasted day.

“Keep the change. Maybe you can buy yourself a diploma with it.” The man slammed the money next to his food and ran down the street towards the crosswalk with his purchases. 

That’s it. He was done for the day, and now was when he could begin his “winding-down” rituals. 

First, he typically would undo his umbrella, but it had begun pouring again, so it would be the last step of his routine. Next, he would turn off the hotdog warmer and wait for them to cool off. Once they were a good temperature, he’d break off the beef links into smaller pieces and feed them to the birds. The birds loved him. 

It wasn’t long before the hotdogs had cooled, and Frank had begun distributing the pieces equally among the different types of birds: some for the gulls from the coast, some for the city pigeons, and some for the family of ducks that lived in the lake at the park a block away. 

The cooing of the birds calmed him down as he looked at the church yet again as if he was saying goodbye for the day with his eyes; as if the church understood him. Out of the corner of his gaze, he saw a familiar flash of red. Only this time, it had been coming in a lot slower than before, a lot weaker, and a lot lower. 

He didn’t believe what he had seen. It was the same young man Claudia had called a hussy, grasping at his stomach as he walked down the street, pressing a hand against the church for support. Where he touched, he left behind a stain on the white wall of the church in what had to be— No, it couldn’t have been blood. 

But it was; and lots of it. There had been blood on the wall where the man had touched. There had been blood on the man’s face. On his tank top—Why had he been wearing only a tank top? On his legs near his crotch. 

He didn’t believe what he had seen. Surely, he had been too tired, is all it was. He could have blinked his eyes, and the horrific scene of that zombie walking down the street would be gone. 

But no. He kept his eyes open and his heart pounding and his hands trembling until he heard the ghastly screams coming from the man echo down the city block. 

“No! Someone! Someone save us!” The man fell to his knees and collapsed on the front steps of the great cathedral with his arms laid out in a sprawling manner.

“Hey!” Frank called to him. “Are you alright?” There was no answer, unsurprisingly. “Hey!” He left his cart and ran straight across the street to meet him. 

The man laid across three layers of steps in a mess of blood and sweat. It was all too painful for Frank not to help with. His eyes were barely open, and his jaw hung loosely from weakness. His fading hair clung to his face, and one of his breasts was exposed through the loose sleeve of his tank top as his body fell twisted. 

“Shit!” Frank yelled as he dropped to the man’s side. “What’s your name? What happened?” He picked the man up like a child, holding him up like a toddler by the arms to get him to wake up.

“Ger—” the man spit out a clot of blood from his mouth. “My name is Gerard.”

“Okay, Gerard.” Frank slapped at his face a few times to keep him awake. 

“Save my baby.” He ordered, grasping at his stomach, inflicting pain upon his own stab wound. 

“Aw, fuck.” Frank felt an immense pressure placed on him. “You’re pregnant?” 

He nodded. “Save us!” Frank got behind Gerard and dragged him down the short number of steps he had been able to get up in the first place. He laid him down on the flat pavement and wrapped his hand with the handkerchief he had in his back pocket, placing a hand over his wound to stop the bleeding. 

By then, Gerard’s blood had gotten all over him and his hands, and when he reached for his cellphone in his pocket, he was sure it had gotten all over his pants too.

“I’m going to call the police, and you are going to be fine. You and your baby will be fine.” His voice was shaken.

He could feel Gerard nodding at his knees as he dialed the emergency number.“Uh, yeah.” He spoke into the phone. “I’m on the corner of Majella and Voltaire at the church, and I’d like to report a stabbing. A man. He’s probably in his late twenties, he told me his name is Gerard. No, I don’t know who did it. I need you to hurry. He’s pregnant and he was stabbed right in the abdomen. Hurry! Shit.” 

“Before you,” Gerard began. His voice was a strained whisper. “slip into unconsciousness.”

“What?” Frank asked, taking Gerard’s hand in his own and squeezing it to create circulation. 

“You don’t know that song?”

“No. What is it.” The question was more to appease him.

“The Doors. The Crystal Ship. I’d like to have another kiss. Another—"

“Come on. Save yourself. Save your voice. God, there's so much blood!" He looked down at his hand, red and warm like the sun that used to beat down on him during gym class in eighth grade. Mr. Benson stood in front of the small group of kids at the basketball hoop. 

“Come on Stacy.” He yelled. “Flick your wrist after you throw. Watch me!” He threw the basketball at the hoop, flicking his wrist down towards the ground. It bounced off the backboard and made it through the net. “See! Jess, you try.” He grabbed the ball and tossed it to her. 

Jessica planted her feet on the pavement, held the ball with her right hand, steadied it with her left, and shot the ball towards the hoop. It made. 

“Good! Now give the ball to Carl.”

She passed the ball to Carl. He made a shot. He passed the ball to Evan. Evan made the shot. 

“Now, it’s Frank’s turn.” 

Frank took the ball and dribbled it a few times. He took a deep breath and threw the ball at the hoop. It bounced off the side of the backboard and almost hit Jessica in the face. 

“Come on Iero! What was that? You’ve got to follow through!”

Those words replayed themselves in his head as he looked down at Gerard’s helpless face on the ground with his fading eyes and his bloodied teeth resting in his quivering mouth.

“Save your voice,” He repeated, “so you can explain to me what happened when you and your baby survive this.” They both became soaked as they waited for the ambulance to come down the street. 

Finally, after a few minutes of pressing on his wound and avoiding awkward eye contact, a siren blasted down the street in their direction. Four EMT’s jumped out of the vehicle before it had even stopped moving as a police car pulled up behind them.

They whisked Gerard away on a stretcher and Frank stood among the mess stunned and frozen as they placed Gerard in the back of the ambulance. He followed them as they were about to close the doors when the last EMT stopped him with a hand at his chest.

“Sir, we can’t let you on unless your family. I’m sure the police would like to have a word with you.”

Frank looked the man straight in his coal-colored eyes and said, “I’m the baby’s father.” There wasn’t a single quiver in his voice.

Waiting for Gerard to come out of the operating room was a tense task. The only way he was able to get through it was by tapping his foot on the speckled floor of the waiting room. He worried for Gerard’s life, for his unborn child, for his cart he had left out on the street. 

Anything slightly out of place bothered him: The cold draft coming from the ceiling, the inconsistent coughing from the ill woman a few seats away from him, the loud conversation being had by two intoxicated people in the corner of the room. Everything got on his nerves. Everything intensified his fear. 

A short doctor entered the room holding a clipboard in her armpit. “Mr. Iero.” She called.

Frank whipped his head up at his own name. He stood in his place and almost ran over to the woman. “How are they?” He shook her hand feverishly. “Is he okay?”

“My name is Dr. Moth. I’d be happy to discuss the procedure in the privacy of the hallway if you’d prefer.”

His stomach dropped. Everything was wrong. They were gone. Weren’t they? “Sure.” As he spoke, he felt his pulse in his ears; in his throat. Before the doctor led him out of the waiting room, he ran back and picked up his jacket he had left of the chair. At this point, it had been more cold than wet with all the lights and air conditioning in the room.

“Follow me.” She instructed. As she led them to the end of the hallway away from any open rooms or stalls in the emergency room. 

“Gerard died, didn’t he?” Frank bit at his nail.

“No actually.” The doctor smiled at him. “Gerard is doing well in the recovery room.”

“Oh my God! Thank you.” He cried, exhaling a long breath he had been holding deep in his lungs. 

“It’s your unborn child that has passed.” 

Hot, fat tears cut their way through Frank’s eyes. He wasn’t crying for himself, or the dead child he had assumed, but he was crying in empathy for Gerard. He knew exactly how he had felt at that moment. He had been there. 

“No!” He whispered with such emotion. He wrapped his hands around his face, trying to block any sounds from escaping. 

“The operating team and I are all very sorry for your loss.”

“Was there any possible way to have saved it?”

She shook her head. “Gerard was in his eleventh week of gestation and was stabbed in such a way that ruptured the amniotic sac enough to send the fetus into shock and cause a miscarriage. The fetus had been gone before we even began operating. We were able to repair the damages to his internal tissues and stop the bleeding.”

“Where is he now? Can I see him?”

“Of course. He still may be extremely exhausted from the anesthesia. On top of his wound, he was severely dehydrated and nearly starving.” 

He had no excuses, seeing as he had never formally met Gerard before today. Technically still, he hadn’t met Gerard before. How weird is it to have soaked in someone’s blood and saved their life without ever knowing their name before or anything about them?

He followed her to the recovery suite with his hands tucked under his armpits the entire way. 

“I’d let him rest for as long as he can before waking him.” She instructed before opening the door to his room. 

The sight of Gerard in his bed caused an awful amount of memories to come forward in his brain of his incident. 

“Okay.” The doctor closed the door behind him, and he sat in the chair beside Gerard’s bed. He tried his hardest not to move and create a noise that could possibly wake him.

The door behind them was so slow to close, and when it finally did, it let a startling sound rip through the room. Gerard’s neck twitched as he woke; his eyes stilled closed.

“Bert?” He asked the beginnings of a smile formed in his lips. 

“No.” Frank informed. 

He opened his eyes, and all Frank saw was his disappointment. 

“Frank.” He could barely choke out his own name at the sight of Gerard’s bloodied eye. His other eye had been raw from dehydration and trauma.

“So that’s your name.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Is Bert here?” He asked.

“No.”

He sighed. “I figured. I am pregnant, right?”

Frank shook his head. “Not anymore.” 

“Fuck.” He whispered, finding the strength to move his hand to wipe his tears. 

“They said you were eleven weeks along.” 

“Can you please call my brother? I don’t have a phone.”

Frank pulled out his phone and handed him the open keypad to type in the number. “Sure. What’s his name?” 

“Mikey.” Gerard said as he typed in the number and handed the phone back to Frank.

“Mikey, okay. What should I tell him?”

“As much as he wants to know.”

Frank stepped into the hallway and pressed the call button. The line picked up right away and Mikey answered an annoyed, “Hello?”

“Um, is this Mikey?” 

“Yes. Who is this?”

“Uh, I’m Frank. Your brother’s been in an accident.”

The line was silent for a second. Finally, a muffled, “Shit!” came through the phone. “Is he alive?”

“Yes, he’s alive, but he lost the baby.”

“Baby? What baby?”

“Oh my god! You didn’t know?”

“No! How did you know?”

“I’m the one who found him. He was stabbed. We don’t know who did it.”

“I’ve got a good idea about who did. Fuck! Where is he?”

“The Emergency room on Montclair street. In a recovery suite.” 

“Well, thanks for staying with him.”

“No problem.”

“I’ll be right over.” The sound of doors opening and closing and the clinking of keys could be heard in close proximity to the receiver of the phone.

“Goodbye.”

“See you then.”

Frank hated having to be the one to tell Mikey about what had happened to his brother.

When Frank sat back down in his visitor chair, he couldn’t help but be intrigued by the changed almost, reborn expression on Gerard’s face. 

“What’s on your mind?”

“Nothing.” He wiped his nose. “Right before I passed out in your arms, the Virgin Mary stood over me.”

Frank laughed.

“Do you know what she told me?”

“No.” 

“She told me to sing, so that’s exactly what I did.”

“Oh, really?’ He responded sardonically.

He lit up with enthusiasm. “Yeah! She did. She said, ‘Sing for me, and God will save you,’ and he did.”

It pissed Frank off to hear people talk like that. “No, he didn’t. I did.”

“God sent you to save me.”

“God doesn’t want anything to do with me!” He folded his arms and leaned back in his seat, tapping his foot on the floor like he had been doing earlier. “Do you want to know why I saved you?”

Gerard nodded.

“Because I’ve been you: in your position. A few years ago, I got caught having sex with another guy my age, and I got expelled in my senior year. He knocked me up one time, and I carried our daughter to full term. She was stillborn.” He stood, and lifted his shirt exposing a cloud of tattooed skin, similar to the ink found on his arms and neck. In the midst of it all, a large, scar pinkish in color had stretched between his pubic bones. He deliberately left the scar alone. He wanted himself and everyone else to see it. “Oh my God! It was the worst.” Frank began sobbing, not holding anything back this time. “‘Cuz you’ve got this big belly, and you get all attached to it and what’s inside. And then your body starts doing what it’s supposed to, and you hurt. And the doctors tell you that it’s all for nothing and they don’t know why.”

“I’m sorry.” Gerard consoled.

Frank sat back down, resting his hand on the side of his face. “Don’t be sorry for me. Be sorry that you and your brother know who did this to you.”

“He does?”

“Yeah. I told him about the incident and he said he had a good idea of this sicko is. You survived this, now I want an explanation.”

Gerard rubbed his face as if the humiliation he felt was an unruly oil glazing his skin that could be wiped off. “I’ve been dating this guy.” He looked down at his fingers and his hatred for them intensified. They were thin, but they still had too much of a cylindrical shape to them. His cuticles had been so dry and peeling. They had begun to bleed in some spots. The black paint on his centimeter-long nail beds had been chipping in a way that brought him back to his high school days. In a sense, had he ever left his high school days? “His name is Bert.”

“Was he the father?”

Gerard nodded. “I’d been meeting him at the Little Red Hotel once a month for the last year or so.”

“I saw.” It slipped out unexpectedly. 

“Excuse you?”

He blushed a shameful red, realizing how much of a stalker he had painted himself to be. “I uh, run the hot dog stand on the corner of Majella and Voltaire. I see you walk by every once in a while. Your hair: It’s kinda iconic.”

“Oh! You waved at me. I remember.”

“Yeah.”

“Anyway, we’d have sex, and he’d pay me. I fell in love with him, and I thought he had fallen in love with me. Everyone told me how wrong Bert was, how he was using me and endangering me; and I didn’t listen. Earlier today, I found out I was pregnant, so when he came back from a hotdog stand with dinner, I decided to tell him. He stabbed me with his switchblade, beat me, and threw me out into the rain.” He covered himself up with the bedsheet. “Did he buy the food from you?”

“I think so. Two plain hotdogs and a bag of sunflower seeds, right?”

“Yup. That’s Bert.”

“He was a real asshole.”

“I guess so.” 

“So, what now?” Frank asked, leaning forward in his seat. “Do you still love him?”

Gerard sighed. “I don’t—”

His words were interrupted by the sound of Dr. Moth outsider the suite. Through the shadows on the blinds on the window, Gerard could hear her yelling at two people whose shadows resembled police officers. “No, you can’t speak with the victim! A family is in mourning right now! Don’t you officers have any respect? Come back tomorrow morning. Visiting hours start at nine o’clock!” The officers backed away, promising they’d be back.

Frank too had turned his head at the sound of the doctor. 

“In the morning? What time is it?”

Frank checked his cell phone. “Nine twenty pm.”

“Damn.” 

“It’s getting pretty late. I think I should get going.” Frank stood. 

“No!” Gerard reached for him. “Stay here. Please, I don’t want to be alone.”

He couldn’t resist, so he sat back down. “I’ll wait for your brother to get here.”

“Tell me about the father of your child. Did you love him?”

Frank snickered. “I thought I loved him. In reality, I lusted him. He was my best friend, and he figured out I had a thing for him, so he asked me to have sex with him in the confessions booth in our church.”

“That’s hot.” He bit at his fingers in attempts to neaten them up. He tasted his own blood under his fingernails.

“Not as hot as the expression on the face of the priest that caught us in the act, or as hot as the faces of my parents when the dean of my private, Catholic school had a meeting with them to explain the terms of my expulsion.”

“Ah.” 

“Do I regret what I had with him? Not a bit.”

“Well, I guess that’s good.”

“How old are you?” Frank asked out of pure curiosity. 

“Twenty-seven.”

“I’m twenty-three. I was eighteen when it happened.”

“Shit! I can’t imagine going through that kind of shit at eighteen.”

It angered Gerard to hear Frank had been through so much at such a young age. The thought of what happened to either of them happening to Gerard at that tender age made him think he might have resolved his problems with a more permanent action. It made him feel weak interpreting Frank’s experience: Something so tragic, yet he still had the ability to help someone in a position similar to his. Where was he: Twenty-seven and alone, stabbed, feeling like the world’s biggest moron.

“How do you cope? What stopped you from ending it all?” Gerard asked, wanting serious answers. 

“I got tattoos.”

Gerard laughed. “I don’t do needles.”

“Yeah, it’s not for everyone.” He pointed to his neck, turning so Gerard could see without having to move too much. “I got this scorpion right here because I wanted prestigious institutions to know I don’t want to be a part of them, seeing as they don’t want to be any part of me.”

“Like insurance.” He giggled.

“I guess.” He yawned. “You know, I’m still not over it, but all you can do is cope; Talk to people about it and cope.”

A knock was heard on the door of the recovery suite and Frank stood. 

“Mr. Way, your brother is here.” A nurse informed. She let him in. 

Mikey stood against the wall with concern in his posture. “Gerard.” He greeted. “Frank.” He waved. “Thank you for waiting here with him.”

“No problem.” He picked up his jacket and reached out to shake Mikey’s hand.

Frank began putting on his jacket. “Well, Mikey’s here, so I guess I better get going.” As tired and as concerned as he was for his cart, Frank didn’t want to leave. He liked talking to Gerard. He felt he could do it for hours.

“No.” Gerard protested. “Stay. Stay right here.”


End file.
